


Plain in Dress, and Sober in her Diet

by Messalina (AellaIrene)



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Genderbending, Multi, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AellaIrene/pseuds/Messalina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call Marcella Zuckerberg a lot of things (Punk, Prophet, Genius, Billionaire, Jezebel, Traitress, Whore). Some of them are even true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plain in Dress, and Sober in her Diet

Mark's definitely past the Bike Room now.

Admittedly, the Bike Room is, at this point, mostly metaphorical, given that she's a drop out, and they've both graduated, but Mark is flat on her back in a hotel bed, with Cameron Winklevoss eating her out while Tyler lounges in a chair, watching like they're his own private porn show, so she's lucky she can think at all.

Cameron, apparently catching onto the fact that she has enough spare brain to think, curls his tongue around her clit, and Mark stuffs her hand into her mouth to keep from shrieking, biting down on her fist. It hurts, enough to bring unexpected tears to her eyes, and sanity to her brain, for the few seconds before Tyler is leaning over her.

"Baby?" he says, tugging at her wrist, as Cameron pulls back. "Baby, don't hurt yourself--"

"I'm not--" Mark says through a fucked throat--because Cameron fucked her in the shower, earlier, and she was hardly through the door before Tyler was fucking her with his fingers, curling up inside her and making her see stars-- and then Tyler strokes her knuckles, and kisses them, and she realises that her hand is bleeding.

"You can make noise," Cameron says, and presses a kiss to her soft belly, crawling up. "We don't mind."

They don't, but Mark is going to have to leave this hotel room eventually, and she doesn't care how soundproof the walls are, she isn't doing it to half the hotel staff smirking, and e-mailing Gawker about how Mark Zuckerburg just walked out of the Winklevosses' hotel room, ridden hard and put away wet. Chris would kill her.

Tyler is still kissing her knuckles, and Cameron is resting his head on her stomach, his hair soft, and a little ticklish. Mark touches it, with her free hand, and he turns into her touch, nosing at her palm. They both have this thing about her hands: it's a little Vulcan, though Mark's never said that, because neither of them would understand it.

"We don't," Tyler says, and touches his tongue to her knuckles, then turns her hand over and kisses her wrist. "Okay?"

"Okay?" Mark says, awkward, stripped bare between them in every way that matters, and Cameron makes a satisfied noise, and turns his face back to kiss her stomach and thighs again, dancing around her cunt. Tyler stays at her wrist, dotting kisses over her veins, upwards towards the soft crease of her elbow. He digs his teeth in, just a little, at the same time as Cameron nips her clit, and Mark's back arches, sparks flying through her veins.

"Yes," Tyler growls, and drops her arm, in favour of scraping his teeth over the pulse point at the base of her neck. She can see the top of Cameron's head, buried in between her legs-- he can spend hours like that, she knows, he did, once, and she nearly went mad from it-- and she reaches down to fist her hands in his hair.

"You like that," Tyler whispers in her ear. "You like this, you love this, god, baby, you're so beautiful like this, you've got no goddam idea." He's palming her breast, rowing calluses catching, but it's good, a good scrape, on the brilliant knife edge between pain and pleasure, and--

Cameron presses three fingers inside her, sudden, and Mark comes.

She blacked out, she realises, when she can think straight again, because she's on her side, and under the covers, cradled against Cameron's chest, with someone stroking her hair, long and slow. She aches, a little, but she's warm, and comfortable, and right now she doesn't care that this is, always, a temporary thing, nothing serious, just sex. It’s the only time she isn’t thinking about the lawsuits, the only time she isn’t bracing herself for the lawyers, listening to them calling her a slut without ever saying the words out loud, implying that everything she got, she got through spreading her legs: for Wardo (but she never) for Dustin (but he was her friend) for Sean (but it wasn't until afterwards.)

She doesn't know why it makes her so mad, that they do all of that, and skim over Erica. Erica was her reason, Erica's words the fuel that fed Facemash, and then Facebook, and Mark can't decide if she should be furious that they ignore her, or relieved that she won't be dragged up as well, pawed over, reduced to her physical essentials, as if Mark never gave a damn.

Sometimes, she wants to stay there, curled up between them, sleep there and wake up there, but they aren’t interested in that. They could have any WASPy girl-- girls, their hearts desire, they can’t possibly want Mark as anything more than a diversion.

"You want a shower?" Tyler-- it's Tyler behind her, she can tell, though she can't say why-- asks, and presses a kiss to her back of her left shoulder. Mark shudders, and Cameron plants a hand in the small of her back.

"Do you have to be anywhere? In the morning?" he asks, and right, that is Mark's cue to leave. She starts trying to ease away, but she's sandwiched between them.

"That's a yes, then," Cameron says, and rolls over onto his back, so Mark can climb over him.

"At least have a shower," Tyler says, "And--god-- we can find you some clothes--"

"They won't fit," Mark says, going for her clothes-- which, fuck, that t-shirt is dead. She thought so when Cameron ripped it off her, but now she looks at it, she's sure.

"They will," Tyler says, and gets out of bed. "No time for a shower?"

Mark turns around, because yes, she has, and yes, she should, and, for a moment, her throat goes dry at the sight of them, gorgeous and golden, Cameron stretched out, Tyler rummaging in a suitcase, muscles defined on his back, and fuck, this is not the time--

"Ha," Tyler says, and straightens, turning round. "We thought we owed you, for the clothes."

He's holding out a camisole, loose, and soft, the kind of thing she wears regularly: except she gets hers in a multipack from Walmart, which makes Chris sad.

The Winklevoss twins have probably never been to Walmart in their lives.

"Thanks," she says, and Cameron sits up.

"'s a pleasure," he says lazily, looking her up and down. "When are you next in New York?"

"Next week," Mark says, catching the top as Tyler throws it, and grabbing her jeans and panties to take into the bathroom. "The depositions are re-starting. I'm staying at the Four Seasons."

"You can stay with us," Cameron says, and Mark goes still. He keeps talking. "We have the room. I mean," he says, re-treading. "We have a guest room? And the condo's pretty central, and--"

"It would be nice," Tyler says, crossing the room to her, and leaning down to kiss her. Mark can hear the bed squeak as Cameron stands up, background to her racing thoughts. They've never suggested anything like this before, always hotels and hotel bars, shared drinks before they both fuck her into the mattress, or she blows one of them-- or both, sequentially, against a wall.

"Go on," Cameron coaxes and kisses the back of her shoulder. "I want to wake up with you."

The thought leaves Mark a little breathless: the two of them kissing her awake, or fucking her, or--

"Yes," she says, and Cameron touches the bottom of the camisole, questioning.

"Yes," she says again, and shuts her eyes.

It's the wrong end of a long shift, and all Erica Albright wants is to have a drink, and catch the subway home.

That plan goes out the window when she walks into her favourite-- safely anonymous-- watering hole and finds Mark Zuckerberg sitting at the bar.

Even now, two and a half years out of an eighteen month relationship, Erica can tell that Mark is drunk, and a bit, or more than a bit, miserable. It's in the way she's sitting, the way she reaches for her drink, the drink itself.

It's been two and a half years, but Erica still goes over, and puts one hand on Mark's left shoulder, gently. Mark doesn't startle.

"Hey, baby," she says, judging the bottle, the empty shot glasses, the look the bartender is giving them. "You want a ride home?"

Mark tilts her head up, and frowns. "Erica. What are you doing here?"

"I work here."

"In a bar?"

"No," Erica says, and swings up onto the bar stool next to her. "For the F.B.I. You don't look so hot. You want me to get you to your hotel?" If she can't remember where it is, Erica will take her back to her place, and put her to sleep on the couch. Mark's short enough, and Erica does not want her out on the streets alone in this state.

"You look good in a suit," Mark decides, tilting her head, and Erica looks down at her sober, sensible, navy pantsuit, then over at Mark, who is, god help her, in a skirt, and heels, and looks terrible.

"You don't."

"I hate them," Mark says. "I can't walk, and these shoes hurt my feet."

"The obvious answer would be to take them off, then," Erica says, and holds out a hand. "So. Hotel? Or my place?"

"Excuse me," says a male voice behind her, "But the lady's taken."

Erica turns around, very slowly, to meet the-- well, to find herself looking at the chest of a very tall blond man. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, and he's glaring down at her, and this situation is setting off all of Erica's alarm bells.

"Mark?" she says. "You wanna come home with me?"

"You know her?" the blond asks, frowning.

"I'm her ex," Erica says. "And given what I know about her taste in SOs, I am more than a little suspicious of your assertion that she's here with you."

"Jesus," Blond Mountain says, "She's my girlfriend. Mark?"

"--Cam?" Mark says, and his shoulders sort of collapse.

"Ty, Mark. I'm Tyler."

"Yeah," Erica says. "She's definitely coming with me. If you're her boyfriend, she'll call you in the morning."

Tyler is back to glaring at her. "Look," he says, "I promise--"

"I'm not going to take that risk," Erica says. "You can call us a cab, if you want to be helpful. I will take her home, and, seriously, she will call you in the morning if you're telling the truth."

She turns away from him, deliberately, shoulder blades prickling, and helps Mark off the bar stool, making a note to get those shoes off her as soon as they're in the cab. Mark leans against her, and Erica pays the bar bill, and helps her across the bar, to the door out.

To her surprise, Tyler has stayed, and has called them a cab. He's leaning in the window, talking to the driver, when they arrive, and he takes one look at Mark, and opens the door for them. "Call me," he says to Mark. "Or Cam, whichever. Now, or in the morning."

"I charge extra for vomit on the seats," the cab driver informs them, and Tyler takes out three fifties, and hands them to Erica. "That should more than cover anything."

"I can't--" Erica starts-- out of obligation, more than anything, because it isn't like she budgeted for cab fare, but Tyler shakes his head.

"You're doing me a favour. So I'm going to do you one. If it makes you feel any better, I'll get the money out of Mark."

The woman in question moans groggily in the back seat, and Tyler leans forward. Erica is ready to thump him if he tries to kiss Mark, but he doesn't, just touches his fingers to the back of her neck, ever so carefully, and then pulls away.

"Nice to meet you, Ms--"

"Albright," Erica says, flushing a little, because seriously, she knew she was not Mark's only female ex, there’s no reason to be embarassed because some guy who may or may not be Mark’s boyfriend doesn’t know her name. "Erica Albright."

"Ah, the infamous Ms Albright," he says. "Tyler Winklevoss."

She nods in acknowledgement, and gets into the cab, Mark slumping against her shoulder. Erica strokes her hair, absently, the way she used to do in her dormroom on a Saturday morning, with the sun coming through the window, and Mark snorting like this whole waking up thing was invented to torture her.

They're three blocks away before she remembers that the place Tyler touched Mark is one of Mark's soft spots, one of the places where, if you touch her, she goes limp and malleable, aroused.

Mark is not, in fact, sick in the cab. Erica gets her up to her apartment, strips her, and leaves her in her bra and underwear, sitting on the couch, while she goes to get a bottle of water, and some aspirin. When she gets back, Mark is curled up under the throw, looking peaked, and oddly young.

"He wasn't my only friend," she says, muzzily. "Not always."

"Who wasn't?" Erica asks, putting the water and aspirin on the coffee table, and trying to remember if she has eatable eggs, or if she should just feed Mark anchovies in the morning for her hangover.

"Wardo. He said he was my only friend."

For a moment, Erica feels a clean burst of anger, breaking through the tiredness, because seriously, fuck Eduardo Saverin. Fuck him so hard. He was one of the reasons she broke up with Mark, though she never managed to say so: Saverin was jealous of her, or just didn't like knowing that the girl he wanted to fuck was bi, or what the fuck she does not know, but he made staying over with Mark fucking horrific. Dustin was a sweetheart-- he's the only guy Erica ever came anywhere near sleeping with, that weekend their attempt at a threesome ended in falling asleep halfway through, and Chris made breakfast for them the next morning, and teased Mark kindly about her sex hair, and talked geopolitics with Erica, but Saverin? Saverin hated Erica, and Erica hated him back.

"Liar," she says, immediately. "Fuck that fucking liar, Mark."

"But he was," Mark says. "Dustin and Chris-- they don't get it, they don't understand how I could do it, and Sean-- I miss Wardo, Erica."

"He's suing you," Erica says, sitting down on the couch, and kissing Mark's forehead. "He's suing you, and no, baby, he was never your only friend."

Mark doesn't look convinced, but she looks even sleepier, and Erica strokes her hair, and waits until she falls asleep before she gets up and heads to her own bed.

When she wakes up, Mark is still asleep, and she stays asleep while Erica has her morning coffee, and checks the news on her laptop, and then her facebook page. Seeing that gives her a thought, and she pauses, then types in 'Mark Zuckerburg', grabbing the sticky notes she keeps on her kitchen counter while the profile page loads. Mark has 266 friends (as opposed to fans). Erica scribbles "You have 267 friends" on a sticky, and goes back, sticks it to Mark's forehead, and goes off to dress.

When she comes back, Mark is awake, sucking at the water bottle while looking in bewilderment at the sticky in her hand.

"That guy from last night," Erica says. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"Um," Mark says, and squinches her nose. "Yes?"

"Yes?"

"We fuck. Kind of a lot. And I am staying with him, so--"

"Right," Erica says, and tousles her hair, just because. "Text him, then. We're at [Address]."

Mark nods, and grabs for her cellphone: on the coffee table next to the aspirin, Erica is not an idiot. Erica goes into the kitchen to make more coffee. She hears Mark make a call, give her address, and then hang up.

"Cam's coming around with clothes," Mark says from the doorway, and Erica turns around and gives her a cup of extremely milky coffee. "Also bagels."

"'Cam'?"

"Tyler's brother." Mark shrugs. "He said he should be three quarters of an hour. I don't know--"

"I've got an hour before I need to go. You? When do your depositions start again?"

Erica's 90% sure that Mark's here for the depositions, and apparently she's right. "Not until ten," Mark says, shrugging. "They don't like to have us in the deposition room together for too long. Apparently they're worried we're going to snap and kill each other."

"You would never snap and commit violence," Erica says. "You'd snap and create Skynet."

Mark smiles a little, at that, and Erica turns back to the counter. "You want food other than bagels? Mi fridge es su fridge."

"I'm good," Mark says, and curls her hands around the cup of coffee.

Erica goes back to her morning routine: shower, dress, stare gloomily at hair, more coffee, juice, yet more coffee, until she hears the door buzzer going. Mark is already there, and letting whoever it is up as Erica comes out of her bedroom, putting the last pin into her hair.

Cameron Winklevoss is identical to his brother, and that is what is takes to jog Erica's memory. The Winklevoss twins, who rowed crew for Harvard, and won at Henley. The Winklevoss twins, who threw fifty fits over Mark, and Facebook, saying that she'd stolen the idea. Erica had heard rumours they were going to sue, but nothing ever came of it.

And now Tyler Winklevoss is fucking Mark, and his brother is kissing Mark on the cheek, and handing her a bagel from a bag. "I got you clothes," he says, hefting the bag in his other hand. "Hi. You must be Erica Albright."

"And you must be Cameron," she says, coming forward to shake his hand as Mark does a python impression with the bagel, and looks in the bag.

"Nife," she says, and bits of bagel and cream cheese come out of her mouth. Erica sighs.

"Too much to hope that your table manners would have improved," she teases, and Mark squinches her nose again, and swallows.

"I keep worrying she's going to choke," Cameron says, watching Mark's neck. "Right there at breakfast, just keel over--"

"I worried she was going to drown herself in cereal, when we were at Exeter," Erica says. "I mean, seriously, I think there were bets on it."

"So I gave up eating breakfast," Mark says, and disappears into the bedroom to change. Erica is left standing there, with her ex-girlfriend's boyfriends brother, and a lack of conversational topics.

"Did your brother-- did he get home okay? Last night?"

"Tyler? Yeah, he got home fine. Just mad. Not at you," he adds hastily, "Or Mark. He just-- got mad, because you were doing the right thing, and it made him mad that anyone needs to. He doesn't think about that sort of thing, unless Mark or our sisters remind him."

"Oh," Erica says, and yeah, she can see that.

"Mark's not too hungover?"

"Fine. I was going to give her anchovies if she wasn't."

"Ancho--right, the salt. Yeah, that would make anyone fine. Thank you, by the way. For making sure she had somewhere safe to sleep, and taking her there, and giving her a bed."

"She's my friend," Erica says, and Winklevoss gives her this weird look. "Yeah, I know, the way we broke up, but-- we were together for eighteen months before that, and we roomed together at Exeter, and I haven't forgotten any of that." She watched Mark practice her fencing, and her dancing, and iced her bruises, and sprawled out on the bed with her, and even slept there with her in the middle of winter, and it seemed the most natural and sensible thing in the world, when they finally kissed.

"I get it," he says, and then Mark comes out.

"Have you got a comb, Erica?"

She looks _good_. Ballet flats instead of heels, smart jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket. The only thing that spoils it is her hair, which looks like a birdsnest.

"Catch," says Cameron, and throws a hairbrush at her.

"I like you," Mark informs him solemnly, and he grins as she pulls the brush through her hair.

"Have a bagel," he says to Erica, and she looks at the clock, and swears. "I'll have to take it and run, or I'll be late. Nice to meet you, Cameron. Mark--"

"I'll see you around?" Mark says. "I mean, the depositions have a few days to go, and I'll be in New York again sometime soon, I keep having meetings and conferences here, and--"

"Yeah," Erica says, and turns around for one of the ever present sets of sticky notes, scribbling her cell number down. "Take this."

Mark nods, and tucks it in her pocket, then pauses, shifts from foot to foot, and hugs Erica. Erica hugs her back, tightly, feeling the familiar press of her body. "Take care," she whispers into Mark's ear. "Please. And watch your back around Saverin."

Mark nods, almost convulsively, and Erica kisses her soft cheek, grabs the bagel and her bag, and runs, with a call of "The door locks on its own!" as she leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Azurelunatic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/azurelunatic). Any mistakes are all me. 
> 
> I have no idea how many FB friends Mark Zuckerberg had in February 2006, but this is an AU, after all.
> 
> Title is from the quote by Lady Mary Wortley-Montagu, summarising Lord Lyttelton's advice to women: "Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet. In short, my deary, kiss me, and be quiet."


End file.
